


#SupportSpidey

by a_matter_of_loyalty



Series: Tales of Tony Stark and Peter Parker (AKA Iron Dad and Spider Son) [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Dad, Movie Night, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27402139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_matter_of_loyalty/pseuds/a_matter_of_loyalty
Summary: “What – what is this?” Peter’s voice trembles.“YOU’RE TRENDING!” Ned is still crowing enthusiastically in his ear, voice high-pitched and tinny over the phone’s loudspeaker. “SPIDER-MAN IS TRENDING, PETER!”Peter stares dumbly down at his phone, because—for once—his Guy in the Chair isn’t exaggerating.Right there, on his phone screen, is the evidence of it: hundreds—no, thousands—of Tweets made in support of Spider-Man, waxing lyrical about his heart of gold and his good deeds and his heroics. Thousands.Almost immediately, Peter knows that this is Mr. Stark’s doing. It has to be.Alternatively: Everyone appreciates Spider-Man. After a difficult patrol leaves Peter disheartened and feeling worthless, Tony thinks it’s about time his Spider-Kid realizes that.Also alternatively: In which Tony finds out about Toomes and the warehouse, Peter fears Spider-Man will never be enough, and the people of Queens (and then some) stick up for their hero.
Relationships: Happy Hogan & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Tales of Tony Stark and Peter Parker (AKA Iron Dad and Spider Son) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815769
Comments: 27
Kudos: 536
Collections: The Best Irondad/Spiderson Fics, The Best Peter Parker Whump Fics, The Best of the Best MCU Fics





	#SupportSpidey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Summertimeblues (Sunshinewalks)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshinewalks/gifts).



> gifting this one to the lovely [@imissyoutoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imissyoutoo/pseuds/Imissyoutoo/works) — happy birthday, Alice! I hope it was a great one! You’ve been such an incredible friend to me, and you never fail to make me smile—whether it’s with your texts or your fics. Here’s hoping I can do the same for you with this fic—even though it’s a little angsty XD (with a side of Iron Dad—obviously—and our fave Best Bro Ned Leeds). Love ya tons <3

**01\. SOMEONE OUT THERE**

_“I want you to know that someone out there cares.”_

**_THURSDAY_ **

It was supposed to be an easy patrol. Well, not _easy_ , exactly, because being Spider-Man carries far too much weight and responsibility to be _easy,_ but tonight was supposed to be uneventful, at least. Light.

Two cats stuck in trees, a carjacking, a mugging.

Light. Uneventful.

Unfortunately, like most things in Peter’s life, it doesn’t stay that way.

“ _Peter,_ ” KAREN’s voice hums in his ear, her familiar soothing croon instantly making him smile out of pure reflex. “ _I’m catching some nearby police chatter. First responders are reporting a Code 10-33._ ”

Peter tilts his head. _Code 10-33._ He’s not as caught up on all of the police codes as he should be, he knows. Luckily for him, he has an AI to step up where he falls short. “10-33?” he asks aloud, the rest of the question unspoken.

KAREN understands. She always does. “A bomb threat,” she supplies.

Peter freezes, the blood running cold in his veins. _Bomb. Bomb bomb bomb._ The memory of Adrian Toomes, flying away in a promise of pain and darkness, flashes across his mind. The concrete pinning his legs to the floor, the sound of his screams echoing in the warehouse, the taste of dust and rubble on his tongue. Tears in his eyes, an immovable ache in his bones, the thought of death rattling in his skull.

“Okay. Okay okay okay.” He snaps his eyes shut and tries to _breathe._ There is no cosmic weight on his chest anymore, he tells himself, nothing to squeeze the air out of his lungs. “Karen,” he forces himself to think through the haze of shock and terror, “where – where did you say the threat was again?” He pretends he doesn’t hear his own voice trembling with fear.

“ _I didn’t,_ ” KAREN replies pleasantly, and her calm voice is one that Peter clings on to. 

“Right.” Peter twitches, lets KAREN’s unshakable demeanor soothe him. “Uh, show me where to go, please.”

“ _Yes, Peter,_ ” she agrees. A map immediately pops up in Peter’s interface, one section highlighted in red. “ _Programming quickest route now..._ ”

As if on cue, a blue line zigzags through the mapped streets, leading to a building sandwiched between a local high school and a postal service. Peter zeroes in on the location. 

_Capital One Bank._

_Of course it’s a bank,_ he thinks, already halfway to hysterical. _It’s always a goddamn bank._

“Alright,” he sighs, shaking off the uncertainty. He has a job to do, and there are people who are counting on him—whether they know it or not. “There’s no rest for the wicked, right? Which means there’s no rest for me.”

KAREN hums. “ _Peter,_ ” she says, soft and gentle, “ _your heartbeat is elevated. Perhaps you should—_ ”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, cutting her off before she can finish her sentence. He already knows what she was going to suggest— _call Mr. Stark._ Which, well, is something that’s _not_ going to happen. Mr. Stark will think he’s in over his head if he comes to him with this. 

And Peter really, _really_ doesn’t want to lose his suit again. 

“I’m fine, Kare,” he repeats. “I’ve got this.”

 _You’ve got this, Spider-Man,_ he tells himself firmly. _People are counting on you._ He takes in a few deep breaths – _in and out, in, out, in, out_ – and refocuses on the map. Shoots out a web. Starts swinging.

_You’ve got this._

* * *

As it turns out, Peter has _not_ got this.

“Spider-Man!” one of the police officers on duty calls out to him as he swings into sight. There is a noticeable note of relief in his voice. He hurriedly waves Peter over to where he and his partner are standing by their police car.

Peter lands on crouched legs beside the officer and shoots him a shaky grin, even though he knows that, logically, the officer can’t see it. “Sorry I’m late,” he greets, forcing as much of his usual cheer into his voice as he can. “I heard something about a bomb?”

The officer who beckoned him over nods hastily. Peter recognizes him from some of his previous patrol nights—an _Officer Joseph Rodriguez,_ he recalls. He’s one of the nicer ones; he tends to let Peter do his thing instead of try to arrest him for vigilantism. Once, he even offered Peter a donut. (Peter was forced to decline, of course, because Mr. Stark might literally bury him in paperwork and meaningless errands if he got powdered sugar all over his multimillion dollar suit, but it had still been _nice_ to be asked.) 

“Yeah. It’s in the underground vault,” Officer Rodriguez explains, and Peter can’t help the recoil that shudders through him.

_Underground._

_Toomes._ The world _erupting_ in a burst of concrete and support beams. Debris _burying him alive—_

“—pider-Man? Are you listening?” Rodriguez takes a step towards him, crowding him in against the police car. “Is everything okay?”

Peter chokes back an instinctive _get away from me._ He nods minutely, unable to bring himself to speak. For the first time while wearing the mask, his voice fails him.

When Rodriguez continues to eye him in confusion, Peter shakes his head and makes a wordless gesture that he hopes conveys _go on._ Rodriguez seems to get it, because he carries on with his explanation: “Uh, our guys inside managed to disable the first bomb, but the perp had a backup plan—a vest—”

 _Of course_ he has a backup plan. Peter curses inwardly.

“—and he’s holding our guys—and a few civilians—hostage. Three bank tellers, some businessman, and a family.” Fitzpatrick pauses. “Two of our own.”

Peter swallows. Hostages. That’s never a good thing. “Alright,” he grits his teeth. “Thanks for filling me in, Officer Rodriguez. I’ll get them out.”

Rodriguez looks briefly surprised to be recognized. After a second, his face flattens into a halfhearted scowl. “You don’t know what you’re walking into,” he cautions. “One wrong move, and you could make things worse. A _lot_ worse.”

Peter hesitates. Rodriguez is _right._ Peter isn’t a trained officer—he isn’t even a trained _vigilante._ He’s just a kid with powers and the will to do something good with his life. But what if that isn’t enough? What if he goes in there and he has no idea what he’s doing? 

What if he _screws up_?

( _“What if someone had died tonight? Different story, right? ‘Cause that’s on you.”_ )

Peter inhales. Exhales. He won’t screw up. He _can’t_ —not when there are lives at stake. Not when there are hostages depending on him. “Don’t worry,” he tells the officer, even as he himself worries. 

Rodriguez narrows his eyes shrewdly, and Peter looks away as if Rodriguez can see right through his mask. 

“I’ll be careful,” he promises, nodding jerkily, and doesn’t wait to hear Rodriguez’s answer before he flips away, heading towards the bank. 

There’s a bomb lying underneath that bank, a group of hostages, and a madman pulling the strings. 

There’s no time to waste.

(He can deal with his own demons later. Toomes will have to wait.)

* * *

In the end, Rodriguez had a point. Peter has no idea what he’s walking into. Luckily for him, that’s one thing that _can_ be fixed. He doesn’t even have to prompt KAREN before she intuitively switches to infrared vision. 

“Thanks, Kare,” he whispers, scanning the bank. There’s a cluster of heat signatures in one of the backrooms, sectioned off from the main open floor area of the bank. Peter counts eight signatures. They all seem to be staying still, and Peter can’t discern any weapons amongst the group, so he attributes those signatures to the hostages.

He frowns, worries instantly spiking. _Something’s wrong. Where’s the perp?_

He shakes it off a second later. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have _time_ to figure that out. 

_They’re counting on you, Parker,_ he reminds himself, and forces his body to _movemovemove._

In the end, it takes him no time at all to reach the hostages. The majority of the bank consists of one room filled with a line of booths, which Peter crosses in bounds and leaps. He takes a sharp turn and ducks into a narrow hallway at the other end of the room, following the infrared map as accurately as he can. 

Mere seconds later, he’s bursting into one of the backrooms, the locked door giving way easily under his enhanced strength. His eyes adjust to the dim light, taking in the sight: six civilians and two uniformed officers, just as Rodriguez warned him.

Peter’s eyes sweep over them. They’re all bound together by a thick coil of rope, arms behind their backs as they sit in a rough circle, facing outwards. At the same time, they all turn their attention to him. 

“Spider-Man!” one of the hostages, a young woman, exclaims in abject relief. “You – _you came for us._ ”

Peter’s stomach clenches. She looks so _scared_. “Of course,” he replies through gritted teeth, forcefully shoving the thought of Toomes away. This matters more. It _has_ to. Privately, he wonders if it’s possible to give the people a way to contact Spider-Man for emergencies. A Bat-signal of his own, maybe. The woman trembles minutely, a sob catching in her throat, and he’s quick to reassure, “I’m here, ma’am. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

He doesn’t waste any more time before striding forward and beginning to undo their restraints with relative ease. The knot is nowhere near tight enough to withhold his super strength. “Where is the criminal?” he asks urgently, resisting the urge to say _bad guy._ Mr. Stark keeps telling him that that makes him sound even younger than he already appears to be.

“He was asking about the underground vault,” one of the bank tellers informs him shakily, confirming Rodriguez’s intel. “He headed that way earlier. I think he... he has a bomb.”

Peter _knows_ there is a bomb. “It’ll be okay,” he says unconvincingly, his efforts to untie them all redoubling. “I’ll stop him. Why did he...”— _leave you all here unguarded?_

The knot finally gives way. The only female hostage leaps to her feet, turning to Peter and grasping his suited hands tightly in her own. “Spider-Man,” she chokes out, and there’s something raw and desperate in her voice. “My son. He took – he took _my son._ ”

Peter stills. He remembers, with sudden vivid clarity, Rodriguez claiming that there’s _a family_ inside. Not _a couple,_ but _a family._

His blood runs cold as he comes to a horrifying realization, answering his unasked question for himself: the criminal wouldn’t _need_ to keep watch over the rest of the group if he already has one hostage with him—insurance. A _child._ There’s – there’s a child involved in all this.

“Ma’am,” he starts, determinedly, “I’ll get your son out of there. I _will_. But you – you have to leave, _now_.”

She twitches violently. “I can’t leave him,” she declines frantically, shaking her head. “He’s _my baby._ Please. I’m not leaving him behind.”

She reminds him so much of his Aunt May, desperate to keep him safe. His heart aches for her. “You have to get to safety,” he insists, “or I won’t be able to focus on saving your son. Please, ma’am.”

She falters. 

“Eleanor,” one of the other hostages, presumably her partner, murmurs, rising to his feet and tugging her into an embrace. She falls into his arms, shaking. “Come on, El. Let him do his job.”

His _job._

Peter swallows, shaken by the gravity of it. “Y-Yeah,” he stammers. “I need to – I’m going after him now. I’ll get your son back, ma’am, sir. Could you... could you make sure everyone gets out safely? The eight of you are the only hostages on this floor.”

The man nods his assent, unsteady but firm. “You can count on me, Spider-Man,” he agrees.

Peter knows they can’t see it, but he smiles anyway—more confidently than he feels. 

“I’ll be right behind you,” he promises, and darts away.

* * *

One of the first things Mr. Stark ever taught him was to _never_ make promises to civilians as Spider-Man.

It’s this memory— _just don’t do it, Pete, because sometimes these things are simply out of our control_ —that sticks with him now, as he stares at the sight in front of him in despair: a little boy ( _he can’t be older than 10,_ Peter thinks with more than a little horror) seized in the unrelenting grip of a built man in a ski mask.

“Ski masks are so overrated,” Peter says aloud, trying desperately to regain his footing, but even he can tell that his voice lacks the typical jibing wit Spider-Man is infamous for. 

“You’re too late, you know,” the perpetrator, aptly nicknamed Ski Mask Guy in Peter’s head, tells him. “The timer’s already counting down. I reckon you have one, maybe two minutes before everything goes _kaboom._ And before you say ‘you won’t get away with this’ like everyone does, I’ll remind you that little Aaron over here needs your help.”

Peter’s eyes follow Ski Mask Guy’s waving gun to the boy— _Aaron_ —who has an explosives-lined vest forcefully wrapped around his tiny body. True to Ski Mask Guy’s words, the explosives have all been armed.

“So,” Ski Mask Guy smirks gleefully, “what will it be?”

Peter glares at him wordlessly and promptly renames him Ski Mask Asshole in his mind.

“Yeah, I think we both know the answer to that,” Ski Mask Asshole laughs, shoving Aaron towards Peter. “See you never, Spider-Man.”

Peter says nothing, refusing to give the man the satisfaction of a response as he flees with two large duffel bags full of cash. Without hesitation, he leaps into action and rushes to Aaron, immediately falling to his knees in front of him.

“Hey, Aaron—can I call you Aaron?” Peter asks, putting on a brave face. When Aaron nods with a terrified whimper, he buries his own fear deep inside him, thinks _sorry, Mr. Stark, it looks like I’m going to have to make one more promise,_ and soothes, “Everything’s gonna be fine, buddy. I promise.”

As soon as Aaron nods a second time, Peter gets to work. “Kare,” he murmurs frantically, trying to keep his voice quiet to refrain from making Aaron even more panicked than he already is, “you gotta help me out here.”

“ _Of course, Peter,_ ” KAREN hums, already beginning to pull up a bomb-defusing manual on the interface.

Unfortunately, before Peter can do anything with the manual, a rapid beeping sound fills the basement.

Peter and Aaron both freeze.

 _T_ _his can’t be happening,_ Peter thinks desperately, and hears the phantom sound of metal wings slicing through the air with a sharp whistle. Toomes’ boisterous laughter wells up in the recesses of Peter’s mind.

_“I’m sorry, Peter.”_

_“What are you talking about? That thing hasn’t even touched me yet!”_

_“True. But then again… it wasn’t really trying to.”_

He remembers the sharp realization that flooded him, the horror that sang in his bones as he made sense of Toomes’ words, the _fear_ that burned bright inside him as the Vultures’ automated wingsuit continued slicing through the pillars with brutal ease. 

He remembers, _vividly_ , what it felt like to stare up and watch the sky collapse, broken rubble hurtling towards him.

He remembers the panic, the _pain,_ the pleas that bubbled up inside him and spilled out of his mouth in a desperate attempt to call for help _—_

_No! Nonono. Not now. Please no. I can’t—_

“M-Mr. Spider-Man?” Aaron squeaks. “Am I going to die?”

Peter inhales sharply as reality sinks back in. “No,” he says forcefully, and Toomes’ image fades away, inch by inch. “I promised, remember? I'm going to get us out of here, bud.”

 _Change of plans,_ he thinks, and KAREN knowingly discards the manual. Without wasting anymore time, Peter forgoes disarming the bomb and instead skips directly to getting the vest off Aaron. 

_Thank god for all those lab sessions with Mr. Stark,_ he thinks, _and for every time Aunt May made me help her with her makeup._ He’s convinced they’re the _only_ reasons why his hands barely shake as he carefully unhooks and removes the vest.

Just as the beeping starts to quicken its pace, Peter gently sets down the vest, scoops Aaron into his arms, and swings away.

A deafening explosion erupts behind them, the basement ceiling caving in mere _split-seconds_ after their escape.

* * *

Aaron runs into his parents’ open arms, and as the family of three dissolves into relieved tears, Peter spirals into an endless loop of _what-ifs._

Aaron’s safe— _everyone’s_ safe—but… _what if_?

Peter numbly shakes Aaron’s father’s hand, lets Aaron and his mother both hug him tight enough to break bones, and swings away.

It isn’t until he's made his way to a rooftop a few blocks over that he lets go, breaking his short fall with a somersault. He glances back at the bank, transfixed by the pile of rubble it's been reduced to, and tries to calm his racing heart.

 _You’re fine,_ he tells himself. _You got out of there. Everyone’s safe._

_You didn’t get trapped inside. You’re free._

He closes his eyes and _exhales._

_I’m free._

After a second, he sits up, struck by a thought. “Karen?” he calls out. A questioning _hm?_ fills the mask, and Peter smiles. “That guy who held up the bank…”

“ _I’ve been following his escape through traffic cameras,_ ” KAREN reports promptly. “ _He hasn’t gotten far. I’ll pull up his current location now._ ”

Peter breaks out into a smirk. “Atta girl,” he praises. “I knew I could count on you.”

* * *

Seven minutes later, Peter returns to the scene of the crime, spots Officer Rodriguez still faithfully waiting outside the bank, and drops Ski Mask Asshole off with a loud _whoop!_ and a bright _gotta jet, Officer_ — _no need to thank me!_

* * *

After a quick check-in with KAREN— _everything seems quiet, Peter; police radios aren’t reporting anything else alarming_ —Peter decides to cut his patrol short and head back home. 

As soon as he arrives, letting himself in through his bedroom window and pulling off his mask, Spider-Man’s confidence drains out of him and he lets himself fall into his aunt’s arms. May doesn’t ask any questions, simply hugging him close and dropping a kiss onto the crown of his head.

Her hugs have always made him feel better, ever since the day two nameless policemen came knocking on their door to tell them that Peter’s parents wouldn’t be coming home.

(Still, all the while, Peter wonders, _what if?_ )

**02\. THE GREATEST GIFT**

_“One of the greatest gifts a person can give another, is support.”_

**_FRIDAY_ **

“...not _again,_ ” Ned huffs, dropping his head into his hands with an exhausted groan. When he receives no response, he peeks up curiously and abruptly frowns. “Peter? _Peter_!”

Peter snaps to attention. “Huh?” he utters dumbly, wide eyes blinking rapidly as he redirects his focus to his best friend. “Sorry, Ned. What were you saying?”

Ned arches an eyebrow. “I _said_ , I can’t believe Ms. Warren’s _already_ assigning us another lab,” he repeats, his lunch all but forgotten in favor of his complaints. Truthfully, Ned has nothing to worry about—he may not be as well-versed in physics as Peter, but he’s no slouch either. He and Peter have never met a physics assignment they haven’t been able to conquer with relative ease. But _still,_ easy or not, it’s the principle of the matter. “We _just_ finished our writeups for her latest lab earlier this week.”

Peter hums and nods absentmindedly. “Oh, right.”

Ned furrows his brows worriedly. Usually, Peter is an eager participant in their lunchtime discussions—even if he usually spends the entire time gushing over his lab sessions with his genius mentor. Ned doesn’t mind; he _loves_ hearing all about The Tony Stark (and, admittedly, living vicariously through his best friend). 

“Is something wrong? You’ve been out of it the entire day,” Ned fusses, unhesitatingly shoving the rest of his (mostly untouched) lunch in Peter’s direction. He’ll never admit it to Peter—he’s in no mood to listen to Peter calling himself a burden yet again—but his mother packs him two lunches everyday anyway; one for him, and one for Peter “honorary Leeds” Parker. (Bless her for always thinking of Peter; Mrs. Leeds _adores_ Ned’s best friend as if he’s another one of her kids.) 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Nothing’s _wrong,_ ” he denies, immediately pushing Ned’s lunchbox back towards him. “And I have _not_ been out of it!”

Ned raises an eyebrow. He’s _never_ known Peter to deny free food; even when Peter feels needlessly guilty for “imposing” on Ned, Peter’s metabolism _forces_ him to accept any food Ned sends his way. 

“Uh, yeah, you have,” Ned says, the _duh_ going unspoken. “You didn’t raise your hand _once_ in Ms. Warren’s class—even though I _know_ you already covered our current topic _ages_ ago with Mr. Stark. And you barely even reacted when Flash made fun of you in the lunchline earlier—even _Flash_ looked a little concerned at your unresponsiveness, and _that’s_ saying something. Plus, you just refused my lunch! You _love_ my mom’s sinigang.”

Peter blinks, eyes immediately drawn to Ned’s forgotten lunch as if only now realizing its contents. A flash of longing crosses his face.

“ _See_!” Ned points out triumphantly. “You’re acting weird today, and you _know_ it.”

Peter opens his mouth, tries to formulate a believable answer, and reluctantly snaps his mouth shut in defeat. Sometimes, he’s convinced Ned knows him better than even he knows himself.

“Are you sick?” Ned presses on accusingly. “Wait, can you even _get_ sick? Because of, y’know,”—he lowers his voice—“ _the other guy._ ”

At that, Peter finally manages to muster a smile—albeit a weak one. “I’m _fine_ , Ned,” he reiterates in an attempt to reassure Ned. As if to prove his point, he promptly shovels the rest of his cafeteria-bought sandwich into his mouth. “Just a little tired. I didn’t get much sleep yesterday night.”

“Oh!” Ned’s eyes widen in delight, worries forgotten for the moment. Leaning forward eagerly, he practically _bounces_ in his seat as he fixes Peter with an ear-to-ear grin. “Is it because you were _on the web_ until late last night? I saw the news—you were awesome at the bank!”

Peter’s lips press into a thin line. He resists the urge to snap out a defensive _I don’t want to talk about that_. Ned, of all people, doesn’t deserve to face an irritated Peter Parker. 

So instead, he swallows the flare of guilt and distractedly murmurs, “Thanks, Ned.”

_Awesome?_

Peter’s mind reflexively flashes back to his subway ride to Midtown that morning, snippets of conversation drifting into his ears. He remembers the journalists sitting in the back corner of the carriage, exchanging hushed whispers about the previous night’s “close-call”.

He remembers browsing all of his news apps and stumbling across an article that lambasted Spider-Man as a _menace to society._ Spearheaded by J. Jonah Jameson, a long-time critic of Peter’s alter-ego from the Daily Bugle, the article _brutally_ tore Spider-Man apart for “failing” the people of Queens at every stage. Jameson went as far as to suggest that Spider-Man _knowingly_ exacerbated the delicate situation at Capital One Bank yesterday and provoked the bomber into triggering the explosion that nearly put a little kid in the hospital.

Peter _knows_ that isn’t true, _knows_ Ski Mask Asshole didn’t _need_ any provoking, but…

 _One wrong move, and you could make things worse,_ Officer Rodriguez warned him last night. 

Jameson’s right about one thing, Peter thinks—this is on _him._

(And if things had gone worse last night, if Aaron had gotten _hurt_ , that would have been on _him_ , too.)

Peter sighs in defeat. Ned always thinks so highly of Peter Parker _and_ Spider-Man both, but… yesterday was _far_ from awesome.

* * *

Later that day, when the bell rings and school lets out for the weekend, Peter finds himself mechanically climbing aboard Happy’s car. 

“Hey, Hap,” he greets, disquieted.

Happy immediately narrows his eyes. “Hey, Peter,” he grunts back, more than a little wary.

He realizes he’s _right_ to be wary when Peter stays quiet, barely releasing so much as a _peep_ during the entire car ride to Stark Tower. 

As much as Happy claims to hate his rambling, he can’t help but think that _anything_ is better than _this_ suffocating silence—a silence that tells him something is very, _very_ wrong.

As soon as they pull into the garage beneath Stark Tower, Happy shoos Peter away with a quick _the Bossman’s waiting for you in his lab_ before grabbing his phone.

 _Something’s up with the Spider-Kid, boss,_ he texts.

A beat.

And then— _Got it. Thanks for the heads-up, Hapster. Don’t worry, I’ll wrangle it out of him._

Happy scowls. _I’m not worried,_ he messages back defensively.

_Sure you aren’t._

Happy’s glower darkens. “Damn it,” he curses under his breath, “that kid is making me _soft_.”

* * *

Tony frowns as he watches Peter traipse into his lab. Happy was right. Something’s _off_ —even if Happy _hadn’t_ warned him in advance, Tony has no doubt he would have noticed it the second Peter arrived. There’s no bounce to Peter’s step, no excited twinkle in his eye, no jerky movements indicative of his eagerness to learn. There’s only a lethargic stiffness that seems to color Peter grey and lifeless.

 _Christ,_ Tony thinks, catching Peter’s eye across the lab. _What the hell happened?_

Peter waves, injecting a modicum of cheer into his motions as he does so. Even then, his gesture is missing the telltale _spring_ that just _screams_ 'Peter Parker'. “Hey Mr. Stark,” the kid greets, but there’s no chirp in his voice.

Tony swallows. It should alarm him that he’s so in tune with Peter that he can simply _tell_ when the kid— _his_ kid—isn’t feeling like himself. Instead, it just fills him with inexplicable warmth.

Or rather, it _would_ fill him with warmth, on any other day. Today, though… Today, he’s far too concerned about Peter’s uncharacteristic behavior to let himself bask in the realization. 

Tony plasters an enthusiastic grin on his face and beckons Peter over. He knows Peter well enough to know that Peter won’t tell him what’s wrong until _he_ decides he’s ready to. Prying won’t help—it’ll only drive Peter away, and that’s the last thing Tony ever wants to do. 

And, well, until Peter wants to talk, at least _one_ of them has to feign excitement, and Tony knows that isn’t going to be Peter. Not today.

“Pete!” he beams, and is rewarded by the slightest uplifting of Peter’s lips. He hides a smug smirk—he knows _exactly_ how giddy nicknames make Peter, _especially_ nicknames from _The Tony Stark._ (Except for that one ‘Underoos’ nickname, but whatever. Tony isn’t going to give up.) “Guess what we’re working on today?”

Peter furrows his brows. “Well,” he starts hesitantly, dropping his backpack on the ground with a harsh _thud_ , “last week you said you wanted to go over the web formula again…?”

Tony’s eyes fill with veiled concern as they track Peter’s bag. _Something is definitely wrong,_ he reaffirms to himself; on any normal day, Peter Parker would never even _dream_ of depositing his backpack like a sack of potatoes on “ _the Holy Land A.K.A. Mr. Stark’s precious lab._ ” (And yes, those were _Peter’s_ words, not his.) 

No matter how often Tony tried to coax Peter to treat the lab as a second home, the reverent gleam that overtook Peter’s eyes the first time he set foot in the lab has never quite disappeared.

Sure, Peter gladly and constantly treats Tony’s penthouse as if it might as well be a frat house—dumping his bags wherever he pleases, kicking his feet up on the couch, unashamedly pilfering cereal and other goods from the kitchen—but the lab is, according to Peter himself, _off-limits_.

Tony eventually came to accept it, fondly rolling his eyes whenever Peter rants and raves about Tony’s mistreatment of _Stella_.

(Because yep, the Spider-Kid _named_ his lab—ostensibly for _science_ -related reasons, but Tony _knows_ his choice of "Stella" has less to do with _actual_ celestial bodies of gas and more to do with Star Wars. 

And nope, Tony didn’t bother even _trying_ to reject the ridiculous name. There’s just no saying _no_ to those eyes, okay?)

All of which is why Peter’s backpack, slumped carelessly on his lab’s flawless gleaming floor, feels like a betrayal. Tony glares at the offending item, and he _swears_ it glares back at him.

A clearing throat draws Tony back to the present. “Mr. Stark…?”

Tony blinks. “Oh, right. Web formula. _Right_. Well, actually, _no_. I found something better for us to do.”

Peter hums questioningly.

Tony grins, pushing the backpack and all its implications to the back of his mind. It’s time for him to enact Operation: Cheer Up the Underoos.

See, some kids watch cheesy rom-coms and devour ice cream to heal their woes. But Peter? The remedy to _Peter’s_ sorrows is a good few hours of tinkering around with the Iron Man suit—three hours _minimum,_ Tony has it down to a science.

Peter’s eyes widen. A tentative grin slithers onto his lips.

Tony presses his lips together to keep himself from smirking triumphantly.

_Operation: Cheer Up the Underoos is a go._

* * *

_Operation: Cheer Up the Underoos is_ not _a go,_ Tony thinks miserably, resisting the urge to slump down in his chair and _groan_ out loud. 

Despite Peter’s initial excitement, the kid ultimately proved impervious to the healing qualities of being given free rein to mess around with the Iron Man suit.

Peter’s barely even _smiled_ since he arrived. In fact, his signature beaming grin—his _real_ smile, not the feeble one he’s trying to pass off as a ‘happy’ expression now—has emerged only two times in as many hours—once, when Tony accidentally spilled his burning coffee all over himself and released a string of expletives that would have prompted May to forbid him from ever seeing Peter again if she’d heard him; and a second time, when Tony faux-reluctantly allowed him to take the suit flying (though only very, _very_ briefly). 

Usually, Tony would be grateful for the reprieve from a giddy Peter Parker, because that’s usually accompanied by endless cheery chatter and relentless pleas for a Star Wars marathon. 

But right now, Tony would do just about anything to see that smile again. 

“Okay,” Tony says decisively, feigning a yawn as he stretches like a languid cat. “I’m kind of beat. I had a tight schedule today—and I didn’t even get to drink my coffee.” He scowls at Peter when the kid has the nerve to _snicker_ , eyeing the brown splotch on his sweatshirt with visible glee. He clears his throat pointedly and continues, “What d’you say we call it a day, huh?” He forces another exaggerated yawn, well aware that Peter will never agree to his suggestion unless he thinks _Tony’s_ the one who needs it.

Peter furrows his brows. “Oh,” he mutters, and Tony blinks at the reluctance in his voice, “okay, sure. Are we still on for Monday?”

Their next lab session is scheduled for Monday, Tony knows this like the back of his hand. 

_Oh,_ Tony thinks, realizing all of a sudden why Peter sounds so disappointed. Peter clearly thinks he’s sending him home. _Well, that’s obviously not going to happen. Not until I fix this._ “Well, _duh,_ I’d never cancel on my favorite brat,” he starts teasingly, and is rewarded by the ghost of a smile—only an inch away from a true Peter Parker Grin™. _Score._ “But we’re not quite done yet.”

“...Huh?” Peter’s nose scrunches up in confusion. 

Tony smiles winningly. “Well, May isn’t expecting you back home until late,” he reasons. “FRIDAY will likely report me to the _lovely_ Ms. Potts if I stay in the lab for any longer, but that doesn’t mean the day has to be _over_.”

Peter smiles back, small but pleased. Tony will never admit how pleased _he_ himself is that Peter doesn’t want to leave yet, despite his obviously upset mood. “What were you thinking?”

“I was _thinking_ along the lines of a good old movie night,” Tony suggests. He _knows_ that will pique Peter’s interest—Movie Night typically isn’t until their fortnightly sleepovers, and their last one was just last week.

Peter considers it. His mind _screams_ at him to say yes, more than eager to sit and laze around and do nothing but watch movies, but… “This had better not be a ploy to get me to watch your old movies.”

Tony resists the urge to stick his tongue out at Peter. He’s the adult here, after all. (In his mind, though, he’s absolutely sticking his tongue out _and_ giving Peter the stink-eye.) “They’re not _old,_ ” he begins defensively, but quickly relents, “but _no._ I’m feeling generous tonight. Disney?”

Peter, who’d been about to scoff at Tony’s claim that he’s _generous,_ immediately straightens in interest. “ _Really_?”

The last time they’d watched a Disney movie together—it was, unsurprisingly, _Bambi_ —Tony spent the entire time either picking apart the plot or teasing Peter for bawling his eyes out.

“ _Really,_ ” Tony confirms. “And I won’t even make fun of you this time.”

Peter nods seriously. “Well, when you put it that way,”—he smirks, hiding his abject relief at the realization that he no longer has to pretend to be in the _mood_ to do anything even remotely productive—“how can I _possibly_ say _no_?”

“Perfect!” Tony claps his hands excitedly, as if _he’s_ the kid and not Peter. “Why don’t you go ahead and pick out the first movie? I’ll get us some snacks.”

Peter’s eyes narrow suddenly.

Tony holds his breath. Did Peter figure him out?

One, two, three seconds pass before Peter finally gives a firm nod. “But no complaining when it turns out to be too _sappy_ for your tastes.”

“...you’re gonna make me sit through _Onward_ again, aren’t you?”

“You know me so well,” Peter teases. 

Tony hides a smile. Yeah, he does.

“Unfortunately,” he says instead and fakes a groan, but at the sight of Peter’s laughing eyes, he can’t help but think, _worth it_. 

* * *

It’s around an hour into _Onward,_ and Ian and Barley have just come face-to-face with the bottomless pit, when Peter shifts minutely in his seat and turns to face Tony. Setting the big bowl of popcorn aside for a moment, Peter clears his throat, instantly misses the taste and crunch of popcorn in his mouth, and fixes Tony with a stern look (or, well, as stern a look as _Peter Parker_ could come up with, at least). 

(Which is not, in fact, stern _at all_ , especially considering Peter’s already cried a grand total of three times so far and his face is visibly tracked by tears.)

Tony scowls defensively and immediately demands, “Why are you looking at me the way I look at DUM-E whenever he tries to foist his oil smoothies on me?” When Peter doesn’t even bother to crack a smile at that, Tony _knows_ something’s up. “All right, what is it? It _must_ be serious, if you’re willingly missing one of your favorite scenes.”

As if on cue, Barley’s encouraging _hey! you can do this_ blares from the speakers, quickly followed by the boys’ exhilarated, triumphant laughter.

Peter doesn’t even seem to notice. 

“I know you know something’s up,” Peter says instead, half-accusatory and half-pleading. “You normally never let me choose what we’re watching unless you absolutely _have to_ —the last time I tried to pick out a movie twice in a row, you said something about how I’d make us watch Star Wars 24/7 if it was up to me.”

Tony sighs and knows he’s caught. It’s the curse (read: _perk_ ) of knowing someone so well, he supposes. There’s no hiding from Peter (and vice versa).

Relenting, Tony runs an exhausted hand over his face and says, “Yeah, you’re right, I know something’s up. I’m just worried about you, Pete. You know you can tell me _anything_.”

“Who told on me?” Peter asks with a weak, wilting laugh. “Was it Ned? Damn it, I _told_ him I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not,” Tony interrupts gently. “And Ned didn’t tell me anything.”

“Then who was it?” he presses, pointedly ignoring the first part of Tony’s statement. He narrows his eyes and guesses, “Aunt May?”

“Why do you think someone had to have _told_ me? Can’t I just be a caring, observant mentor?” Tony deflects. 

Peter just shoots him a wordless, unimpressed _look_. “The first one, sure.”

“Fine,” Tony gives in, all too quickly. “It was Happy. But I would’ve noticed anyway.”

The sarcasm fades from Peter’s face. “Yeah, I know,” he agrees and thinks, _you always notice._

“I mean, firstly, you’ve barely touched your hot chocolate the entire time we’ve been watching. Normally, by the time we’re halfway into our first movie, you’ll have finished your first mug _and_ stolen mine,” Tony points out without a trace of annoyance; there’s only fondness in his voice—so much of it that Peter’s heart stutters in his chest. “Secondly, of all the blankets in this penthouse, you chose to take the _only_ Iron Man-themed one. You and I both _know_ what that means.”

Without his permission, Peter’s grip on the Iron Man blanket (a gag gift from Rhodey) tightens.

Tony’s knowing gaze sharpens, and Peter curses himself silently.

“And don’t even get me started on the _popcorn,_ ” Tony continues, graciously deciding not to remark on Peter’s subconscious reaction. “You only make caramel-flavored popcorn when you’re feeling down, like that one time MJ had to work on a project with Brad and you worried he’d _sweep her off her feet_ —”

“—Okay, okay, we get it,” Peter interrupts hastily, face burning scarlet with embarrassment. Beneath the utter mortification, though, his eyes are wide with dazed wonder. 

Ned’s confident _you love my mom’s sinigang_ stampedes across his mind again, and Peter has to wonder how Mr. Stark and Ned both seem to be so in tune with his every little tendency.

Awe runs through him as he thinks privately, _I didn’t even realize I do all of that._

“Look, all I’m saying is that I _know_ you, Pete, and I _know_ something’s wrong,” Tony concludes softly, his voice a reassuring whisper in the darkness of the living room. “And when you’re ready, I’m here.” _I’ll always be here._

Peter blinks back tears. “Okay,” he whispers, but what he really means is _I know_ and _thank you._

Tony flashes him a relieved, satisfied smile.

Tentatively, Peter smiles back.

In wordless agreement, they settle back in to continue watching the movie—though they both know that _neither_ of them are going to be fully focused on Ian and Barley’s journey after that.

* * *

It isn’t until 40 minutes later—as Ian comes to the realization that he already _has_ someone to share his life with—that Peter stiffens, once more drawn out of the film and into reality—into the way he can feel Mr. Stark’s tangible warmth beside him, the way Mr. Stark ruffles his hair whenever a particularly touching scene comes on, the way Mr. Stark chuckles and groans and smiles along at all the appropriate moments despite initially scoffing at Peter’s choice of movie.

( _“I’m a grown man,” Tony grouses. “I should_ not _have to sit through a two-hour animated movie about elves and quests and_ magical adventures. _”_

_“Oh, please,” Peter dismisses his mentor’s grumbling without batting an eye, “who do you think you’re fooling? We both know you love animated movies, Mr. Stark. There’s a reason Uncle Rhodey calls you a man-child, after all.”_

_“...I think I liked you better when you were still intimidated by me,” Tony declares._

_“Too late,” Peter snickers. “You’re stuck with me now.”_

_“Oh, woe is me,” Tony says mournfully, his tone somehow deadpan yet dramatic all at once._ )

Tony subconsciously and immediately reacts to Peter’s return to reality; he’s all too aware of his kid’s every move, and there’s no use pretending he isn’t. 

(He does ~~himself~~ Peter the kindness of pretending not to notice the way Peter’s eyes dart to him every so often, though. There are too many parallels between Peter and Ian to count, and they both know it. It’s impossible _not_ to see a little bit of Peter in Ian—in Ian’s childlike innocence and cheer, in Ian’s determination and stubbornness, in Ian’s strength of will, in Ian’s clumsiness and tendency to ramble awkwardly.

Tony wonders, for a fraction of a second, when he started seeing Peter everywhere—in movie characters with too-bright smiles, in merry children running around with their _families_ at the park, and even in himself.

The truth is, he _knows_ the answer. 

It started after the first time he let Peter into the lab and Peter spent the entire time endearingly stammering out all the right answers. Since then, Peter has been steadily sneaking his way into Tony’s life, making himself at home in a private nook in Tony’s heart. By now, he’s become irreplaceable, and Tony wouldn’t have it any other way.

He loves this goddamn kid as if Peter were his _own_ child, and there’s no denying it. Everyone from Pepper to Aunt May to _FRIDAY_ can see it.)

On the screen, Ian stares down at his checklist, wide-eyed and stunned as memories of himself and Barley flash through his mind, but Tony isn’t watching him anymore. Instead, he watches out of the corner of his eye as Peter pulls the Iron Man-patterned blanket tighter around himself and sniffles audibly.

 _I know you’re stronger than that,_ Barley’s voice rings bright and cheery with veiled laughter.

Inexplicably, Tony feels his own eyes start to tear up. As much as he loves to make fun of Peter for getting emotional every time they watch _Onward_ together ( _Pete, buddy, this is your_ seventh _time watching this damn movie. You’ve practically memorized all of the lines word for word, so I_ know _you know exactly what’s coming._ Why _are you still crying?_ ), he can’t deny that it’s _heartbreaking_.

(Can’t deny that it hits a little _too_ close to home.)

He swallows, throws an arm around Peter’s shoulders, and pulls him in close. 

Peter goes easily, tucking himself into his mentor’s side with an effortlessness that does not pass by Tony unnoticed. Ian makes his way down his checklist, scrawling out confident red check marks beside each item, and Peter closes his eyes in contentment.

_This is nice._

* * *

Peter manages to hold out for the rest of the movie, but as soon as the screen fades out on a picture of the elven brothers, he _breaks_. In fact, he barely even makes it four seconds into the end credits before his resolve snaps. 

He can’t fool himself into believing he’s okay anymore—not when Mr. Stark’s arm is warm and heavy around him, not when Brandi Carlile’s emotional voice is crooning the loaded line _you’re the soul who understands the scars that made me who I am,_ and not when he _saw_ the way Mr. Stark hid a tearful, trembling smile behind the rim of his mug.

Sometimes, when he thinks of just _how_ well Mr. Stark knows him—of how well Mr. Stark understands the scars that make _him_ who _he_ is, in a way no one else can—he finds himself breathless. In the end, it’s _this_ —the realization that Mr. Stark _notices,_ that Mr. Stark _cares,_ that Mr. Stark will _always_ be there for him—that makes him crumble.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter whispers.

Tony jerks up in surprise, his head whipping around to face Peter as if yanked by a leash. “Huh?” he blurts out dumbly, eyes blinking rapidly. After all, the last time they watched _Onward_ and Tony tried to initiate a conversation while the end credits rolled, Peter practically _blew up_ at him.

( _“What’s the big deal?” Tony huffs defensively. “The movie’s already over!”_

_“But the song isn’t!” Peter argues._

_Tony snorts. His Spider-Kid is always getting riled up about the most_ ridiculous _things. Tony both hates and loves that about him._

 _“Come on, Mr. Stark, everyone_ knows _‘Carried Me With You’ is one of the best things about this entire movie,” Peter insists. “It completes the experience!”_

_“...you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he deadpans. “You’re unbelievable.”_

_“What’s_ unbelievable _is that you think it’s even_ remotely _acceptable to miss this masterpiece of a song.”_

_“Christ,”—Tony shakes his head in disbelief—“you’re lucky you’re adorable, or I would’ve kicked you out a long time ago.”_

_Peter just laughs brightly, entirely unfazed by Tony’s playful threat._ )

Peter, completely blind to the incredulous look on Tony’s face, bites his lip nervously. All at once, he whispers, the words leaving him like a confession, “There was a boy. He was just a _child_ , and...”

Now that he’s taken the first step, the rest of the story tumbles out of his mouth in a rush: “He was at the bank with his parents yesterday.”

Tony’s blood runs cold. _At the bank._ He knows what bank Peter must be talking about—there’s only one bank he could _possibly_ be referring to, today of all days. After all, Capital One Bank has been all over the news since early this morning, with headlines such as _Last-Minute Save at Queens’ Bank by Spider-Man_ and _Spider-Man Rescues Hostages Amidst_ _Explosions at Capital One Bank_ running nationwide.

“Capital One Bank, right?” Tony asks for confirmation. Peter nods, and Tony hums contemplatively. “I read that you got all the hostages out. You did _good,_ Pete. I’m proud of you.”

(Compliments used to fall so rarely from Tony’s mouth. Or rather, he used to have no idea what it even _meant_ to be _proud_ of someone else. 

These days, though, he never goes a day without reminding Peter of just _how_ proud he is of him.)

Peter flinches as if physically struck. He doesn’t _deserve_ Tony’s praise, no matter what Tony thinks. 

“Yeah, well, did you _also_ read about how I was almost too late to save that boy?” Peter retorts bitterly. “I got to everyone else on time, but he was in the basement with the perpetrator, and… I wasn’t _fast enough,_ Mr. Stark. And because of _me_ , he nearly got hurt. He could have _died_.”

Tony swallows in realization. Oh. _Oh. That’s why he…_ Still, undeterred, he murmurs steadfastly, “ _Because of you,_ he survived _._ ”

“But what if – what if he _didn’t_?” Peter whispers, voice thick with terror. Jameson’s words rattle in his brain, cruel and taunting: _If you’re listening, Spider-Man—Queens was better off without you._ “What if I’d failed, and he’d…”

He can’t bring himself to say it.

“Don’t think about that, Pete,” Tony scolds gently. “What-ifs never do us any good. I _know_ you, and I know you did everything you could. I know you did your best.”

 _My best is never enough,_ Peter thinks despairingly, and in a flash, he sees it: all of his greatest failures. 

Uncle Ben dies in front of him all over again, his kind hazelnut eyes as warm as the blood leaching out of his body and onto Peter’s hands. The sidewalk is rough and scratchy beneath his knees, and the stench of his own bile fills his nose.

Gravelly asphalt morphs into the stainless steel of an elevator that haunts his nightmares to this day. His friends’ familiar screams ring in his ears, and the unadulterated fear in Liz’s eyes drill into him as the elevator’s steel wire ropes _snap_ and the floor falls away from beneath their feet. 

In his distorted memories, Liz slips out of his grasp like sand, and her terror-struck face is replaced by her father’s vicious smile. Toomes’ laugh _crawls_ up his spine as concrete and rebar come crashing down onto him, burying him whole, smothering his screams of _HELP!_ and _COME ON, SPIDER-MAN—_

His best is never enough.

“—and whatever that little voice in your head is telling you, Peter, it’s _wrong,_ ” Tony is saying. “If you’ll listen to anything at all, listen to this: you _saved_ them, Pete. No matter what else happened in that bank, don’t forget that you _succeeded._ Those hostages are _alive_ because you were there last night. Like I said, I’m _proud_ of you.”

Peter’s eyes prick with tears. “You didn’t _see_ him,” he breathes. “He looked—”

—( _“Am I going to die?”_ )—

 _—Terrified_ , like all of the monsters under his bed had come alive.

“I don’t need to have seen him,” Tony counters. “He’d have died without you, alone in that basement.”

“Maybe Jameson’s right,” Peter mutters to himself, too lost in his own demeaning thoughts to hear his mentor’s vehement reassurances. “What good is Spider-Man, if he can’t even pull off a hostage rescue correctly? I’m a menace.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. _Jameson?_ he mouths to himself. _Who the hell is that? And more importantly—why the fuck is he telling my kid he’s a menace?_

_Note to self: remember to have FRI hunt him down as soon as Peter leaves. No way in hell am I letting him run free disparaging Pete like that. Nobody gets to make Peter feel worthless._

“Peter Benjamin Parker, don’t you _ever_ call yourself a ‘menace’ again,” Tony snaps, and despite his outward facade of pure indignation, there’s something else in his voice. Something loud and roaring and _fiercely_ defensive, Peter realizes. “ _No one_ gets away with insulting my kid—not even when he’s being a _dumbass—_ not even you yourself.”

Peter blinks dazedly.

_My kid._

Without warning, Aunt May’s doting smile weaves its way into the forefront of his mind, familiar and comforting. He feels the imprint of her arms around him, warm and snug and _safe._

 _Oh,_ he thinks, finally understanding what it is he heard in Tony’s voice. Protective anger, worry, and underneath it all, a well of love. 

_Kid._

Peter sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m being a dumbass, huh?” he wonders lightly, because he can’t bring himself to comment on the _other_ thing Mr. Stark revealed. Because if he lets himself dwell on the way _my kid_ rolled off Mr. Stark’s tongue—as if it _belonged_ there, as if Mr. Stark was _born_ to say it—he knows he’ll break down in tears.

Tony nods seriously. “Yep,” he agrees, and the slightest hint of a smirk slithers onto his lips.

Peter sniffs.

Tony’s gaze gentles immeasurably. “You’re a hero, kiddo,” he murmurs, any trace of amusement or biting sarcasm gone. “Don’t listen to anyone who tells you otherwise.”

It feels unbelievable, sometimes, how much Mr. Stark believes in him. (Because for some unfathomable reason, Mr. Stark believes in him more than Peter himself ever has.)

 _I don't deserve it_ , Peter thinks to himself, Aaron’s petrified gaze burned in his memory. Beyond that, he doesn’t know _how_ to live up to all of Mr. Stark’s expectations, how to be _good enough_ as both Peter Parker and Spider-Man. 

“Hey,”—Tony nudges him—“I mean it. And you should really listen to me, because I know what I’m talking about. I’m Tony Stark, after all.”

“Right. You’re Tony Stark,” Peter echoes, exasperated despite the uncertainty that lingers in his bones. Mr. Stark always knows exactly how to lift his spirits. 

And from the speakers, Carlile’s soothing voice warbles, _And when my head was in the clouds, you found a way to pull me out._

As if hearing his thoughts, Tony smirks. “Exactly. And _Tony Stark_ says you’re a better hero than he’ll ever be.”

 _You picked my heart up off the ground,_ Carlile sings, strong and sure, _and it showed me love was all around._

But no matter how loud FRIDAY’s speakers are, all Peter can hear is—

_"You’re a better hero."_

All Peter can _think_ of is—

_"...I just wanted to be like you."_

_"And I wanted you to be better."_

Peter flinches violently. Without warning, he _bursts_ into tears, his previously improved mood fleeing immediately.

Tony _freezes_. 

“Don’t,” Peter chokes. “Don’t say that. You wouldn’t be thinking that if you _knew_ all the things I’ve done, all the ways I’ve _failed_.”

“You’re wrong. Let me _prove_ you wrong,” Tony urges. “Tell me.”

Peter shakes his head frantically. “ _No,_ ” he says desperately, “I can’t. You… you said you were _proud of me,_ Mr. Stark, and I…”

“Nothing you could possibly say could make me any _less_ proud,” Tony promises. “You’re my _kid_ , Pete, you know that. I’ll _always_ be proud, no matter what.”

Peter wavers.

In that moment, Tony’s encouraging smile reminds him of the sheer relief on Aaron’s father’s face last night.

Peter falls.

“I lied,” he admits in a rush. His voice cracks in half. “I wasn’t too late. I got there just in time. And when I did, the robber – he, uh, he told me I had a minute or two before the bomb would go off. I had _time_.”

“What happened?” Tony asks, not unkindly. In all of his interviews and press conferences, Peter has never heard him sound like this before—indulgent and endlessly patient.

“The robber ran away,” Peter recounts. “I let him. I… I went to Aaron. And I was so close to getting the bomb vest off when—”

_When I remembered Toomes._

Peter swallows thickly. “I know it was probably just my head playing tricks on me, but it sounded so loud,” he says instead. “And the beeping was so fast, I – I panicked.”

Tony rests a hand on Peter’s knee, squeezing reassuringly.

Peter looks up and meets Tony’s gaze reluctantly, his eyelashes damp with tears. “I _froze,_ Mr. Stark.” His voice is hushed, thick with self-recrimination. “I froze, and it almost got Aaron killed.”

“Oh, Pete,” Tony sighs sympathetically. “You can’t blame yourself for that. It was a stressful situation. I get it. _Anyone_ would’ve been scared.”

“But you _don’t_ get it,” Peter insists. “It _is_ my fault, because I thought – I thought I was _okay._ I thought _he_ couldn’t get to me anymore, but he _can._ I was stupid, and it put someone else in danger. _A little boy._ ”

“I don’t follow,” Tony interrupts. “What are you talking about? Who's _he_? What don’t I get, Peter?”

Peter ducks his head and stares long and hard at his hands, as if he can see the blood he _knows_ they are soaked in. Usually, he looks down at his hands and all he can see is Uncle Ben’s blood. 

This time, he lets himself imagine Aaron’s.

At the thought of that image, nausea _surges_ through him.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, tucking his hands beneath his knees. “I – never mind. You’re right, I was just… I was just scared. That’s all it was.”

Tony frowns. “Peter—”

“I _shouldn’t_ _have_ gotten scared, though,” he forges on. “I’m supposed to be a _superhero._ Everyone was looking to _me_ to save them, and I screwed up. I – I made a mistake, and now Aaron will be stuck with that memory forever.”

“That’s not your _fault_ —" 

“He looked so small in that vest,” Peter whispers. “So _fragile._ Physically, he’s unhurt, but… he had a _bomb_ strapped to his chest. He thought he was going to _die,_ Mr. Stark. He’ll never get over that.”

This much, Peter _knows_ with _every_ fiber of his being. He knows it because _he_ never got over his first near-death experience, because _he_ still can’t get the memory of Toomes walking away and leaving him to his death out of his mind.

Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, it’s _all_ he can see. Sometimes, when it’s too quiet in the dead of night and even his enhanced hearing can’t pick up anything beyond the four walls of his room, all he can hear is his own heavy breathing and muffled sobs and desperate _screams_ for help. And sometimes, when he awakes from a nightmare entangled in his blanket, he feels like he’s back in that warehouse, dust and debris suffocating him. 

“...ete? _Peter_!”

Peter gasps for breath. “I’m – I’m okay,” he manages to say. “I was just… lost in thought.”

“Well, like I was saying, you can’t punish yourself for getting _scared,_ ” Tony says. “Trust me, fear is natural. Hell, _I_ would’ve been terrified out of my mind if I’d found myself in an underground vault with an armed bomb.”

“Right.” Peter nods. “I guess that’s true. Yeah, I just – I was just scared of getting trapped under a building again.”

Tony doesn’t realize it now, but later, he’ll look back at this moment and pinpoint it as the beginning of his unraveling. As of now, though, he doesn’t yet understand the _implications_ of Peter’s words—doesn’t understand the weight and gravity they carry.

“‘Again’?” he asks sharply. “What do you mean, ‘ _again_ ’?”

Peter stills. _Shit,_ he thinks bleakly, cursing himself for recklessly running his mouth. _Damn it, Parker, this is why teachers always tell you to think before you speak._ This wasn’t supposed to happen. He never wanted Mr. Stark to know about that day from Hell—he never wanted Mr. Stark to realize just how close he came to death, and just how often he still thought of Toomes and what he did to him. 

“Huh?” Peter feigns ignorance. “Did I say ‘again’? Sorry, I – I must have meant ‘at all’—as in, I was scared of getting trapped under a building _at all._ Why would I say ‘again’? That’s ridiculous.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “ _Peter_ ,” he enunciates slowly, trepidation pooling in the pit of his stomach. “What the _hell_ did you mean by ‘again’?”

Tony locks gazes with Peter, intent and _searching._

Peter has always been a terrible liar.

“…Homecoming,” Peter whispers, and as hesitant as he is to finally spill his secret, it feels like a weight off his chest. He sags into the soft cushioning of the sofa and closes his eyes, unable to face Mr. Stark as he continues, “You found Toomes and I on Coney Island, but our fight began in an abandoned warehouse. After a while, he, uh – he knocked out the support columns. The entire building collapsed, and… and I was still inside.”

If only Peter were to open his eyes, he’d find his mentor staring at him in abject horror. 

(Peter claims the building collapsed with _him in it._ Tony lets the words wash over him and feels like his entire _world_ is collapsing.)

“I-I had no idea. Why didn’t you _call_ _me_?” Tony chokes out, the words tasting sour on his tongue. His stomach _churns_ with guilt. How could this have happened? How could he have _let_ this happen?

How had he failed Peter in such a monumental, _unforgivable_ way?

“I couldn’t,” Peter says, and it feels like betrayal. 

It feels like a self-inflicted punch in the gut, like electricity coursing up his arm, like free-falling to certain death. Tony would gladly face Loki a dozen more times if it would erase this irredeemable sin, because—

“You didn’t have your suit,” Tony says, thick with realization. “ _I_ took your suit.”

Peter just nods, unable to bring himself to say it.

He doesn’t have to. Tony knows enough. He knows he let Peter down, knows he could have saved Peter from _being trapped underneath an entire goddamn building,_ knows nothing will ever make up for it. 

_Oh, god,_ he thinks helplessly, _what have I done?_

“I screamed for help,” Peter explains, ”but no one came. I don’t know how long I just _lay_ there, listening to my own ribcage bend and break inside my body, before I realized I was the only one who could save myself now.”

( _If you’re nothing without the suit, then you shouldn’t have it._ )

“How did you…?”

“Turns out that spider bite has more perks than I realized,” Peter offers.

Tony hears what Peter _doesn’t_ say. “You lifted the building off of yourself, didn’t you?”

It isn’t a question.

Peter nods reluctantly.

A breath leaves Tony, too heavily to be just an expulsion of air. The thought of Peter having to save himself from a man with a grudge against _Tony,_ because _Tony_ had stolen his form of protection and his means of asking for help… 

( _I screamed for help, but no one came,_ Peter said, and it sounded like: _I needed your help, but you didn’t come._

Tony closes his eyes in defeat. It’s only his _years’_ worth of experience in drowning himself in alcohol that keeps him from doubling over and retching right then and there.)

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know what to _think._

How could he have been so _stupid,_ to have honestly believed that Peter would have simply stopped going out as Spider-Man just because he no longer had a Stark-suit? He’d been trying to forcibly ground Peter and _protect_ him, but instead he put him in even more danger. Instead, he left Peter to fend for himself.

 _Some mentor I am,_ he thinks bitterly. How could Peter have ever trusted him again, after all that? How could Peter have _forgiven_ him?

“You could’ve died,” Tony breathes. He squeezes his eyes shut and _shudders._ “Toomes nearly _killed_ you, and _I wasn’t there._ ” 

...Where _had_ he been? 

At some stupid gala, probably, mingling with dozens of stuck-up sycophants, completely unaware that halfway across the city, Peter Parker was suffering. (Because of _him_.)

“How did I not know this?” he finally dares to ask, and a part of him is terrified of the answer. But the other part of him _needs_ to know. “Toomes has been in jail for _months._ Why didn’t you ever tell me?” His voice is _pleading_. 

(Tony has never had to beg _anyone_ for _anything_ in his entire life—the perks of being not only _impossibly_ rich but also _impossibly_ influential, _impossibly_ powerful, as both Tony _Effing_ Stark and Iron Man—but right now, he begs.

He begs for absolution. He hopes the answer is that Peter saw no _need_ to tell him because he’s _healed._ He prays for salvation.

Deep down, he knows his hopes are in vain. 

_He thought he was going to die, Mr. Stark,_ Peter bewailed mere moments ago, eyes far away as if he was entrapped by a memory. _He’ll never get over that._

At the time, Tony thought he was simply remembering Aaron. Now, he thinks of the raw _fear_ in Peter’s voice and wonders if he was talking about himself.)

Peter doesn’t have an answer to his mentor’s imploring questions—not one Mr. Stark wants to hear, anyway.

Maybe: _I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle this—being Spider-Man._

Or: _You finally gave me my suit back. I couldn’t lose it again._

Or: _I was scared._

He doesn’t say any of those. Instead, all he says is, “I didn’t want you to think I was weak.”

Tony rears back as if Peter had attacked him. The realization that he’s failed Peter in even _more_ ways than he first believed—that he’s failed to make Peter feel _safe_ with him, to _trust_ him with his vulnerabilities—threatens to drown him whole. “Pete, kid, _no—_ I wouldn’t have—”

“I know,” Peter interrupts. This is yet another reason why he never intended to let Tony know, he thinks: because superheroes and self-blame go hand-in-hand, and he never wanted Tony to feel responsible for _Peter's_ mistakes. “I just didn’t want to let you down.”

 _Not again,_ he thinks privately. He’ll never forget the way Mr. Stark looked at him that day after the Staten Island Ferry nearly fell apart—with sheer disappointment.

“I wish you felt comfortable enough to tell me earlier,” Tony murmurs, and can’t help but think of himself in his youth, so estranged from his father. As a child, he never felt like he could come to Howard with his fears, his doubts, his nightmares—real or imaginary. The thought that Peter might feel that way about him makes him feel sick to his stomach. “I wish I could've _been there_ for you. _I’m_ the one who let you down, _not_ the other way around.”

“ _No,_ ” Peter says firmly, and Tony’s eyes snap up to meet his. There’s no recrimination in Peter’s gaze. No blame, no loathing, no righteous anger. “No. That was _not_ your fault. You couldn’t have possibly known.”

“But—”

“You told me what happened last night wasn’t _my_ fault,” Peter reminds him. “That I’m not guilty of what did happen and of what _could have_ happened to Aaron.”

“Of course not,” Tony scoffs, “if yesterday was anyone’s fault, it’s the robber’s.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Peter huffs. “If you won’t let me blame myself for Aaron, then there’s _no way in hell_ I’m going to let you hate yourself for something that happened months ago—something that was completely out of your control.”

“But whether or not you had your suit _was_ in my control,” Tony argues. “If I’d just _listened_ to you, I could have saved you from that night.” _But I didn’t listen. I didn’t_ save _you, not like you saved Aaron._

“You did the right thing,” Peter tells him, and the conviction in Peter’s voice stuns Tony speechless. He and Peter have long come to the silent agreement to avoid the topic of the Staten Island Disaster ( _yes, Disaster-with-a-capital-D, because Tony’s Spider-Kid is full of dramatic teen angst and don’t let him tell you otherwise_ ); these days, anything even remotely related to their Argument ( _also_ with a capital A) from that day has become taboo. In any case, Peter has certainly never admitted to agreeing that Tony was in the right—not like he’s doing now. “I was reckless and foolish and completely unaware of the potential dangers of my powers. You were just trying to keep me out of danger.”

 _Well, I failed miserably at that,_ Tony thinks, eyes haunted as they dart to Peter’s chest where it rises and falls. Peter’s breath comes steadily now, but— 

_What if things had gone worse with Toomes? What if he never escaped that collapsed building?_

“Mr. Stark, I’m _okay._ Really, I am! You can even ask FRIDAY for confirmation—she’ll tell you all of my vitals and stuff are stable. I’m _fine,_ ” Peter reassures. He knows that expression all too well. “Besides, ‘what-ifs never do us any good,’ remember?” 

Tony blinks. “ _Peter Parker,_ did you just use my own words against me?”

Peter just shrugs. “Whatever works.”

Tony can’t resist the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re _impossible_ ,” he sighs, and is rewarded with a bright smile. He hides an affectionate smile of his own. God, this _kid._ It’s hopeless to try to stay in a bad mood when Peter’s giving him that broad, shit-eating grin of his—anyone who’s ever met Peter Parker will attest to that.

“So… did it work?” Peter, like the annoyingly persistent kid that he is, teases.

Tony hums and takes a long sip of his hot (well, _lukewarm_ now) chocolate to stall for time. “ _Fine_ ,” he relents at last.

And then, because the thought of Peter begging for help beneath tons of concrete, voice hoarse with desperation, still makes his heart _squeeze_ , he adds: “But Pete, next time you’re in trouble—whether it’s because of a difficult patrol or a jerk at school— _please_ call me. Please. You never have to worry about appearing ‘weak’ to me or anything like that—or if you are, give Rhodey a call and I’m sure he’ll be more than _thrilled_ to fill you in on all of my weakest moments. The time I nearly died tripping down the stairs at college comes to mind. Anyway, my point is: I’m never going to judge you, Peter. I just want to help you in any way I can.” 

Peter’s peppy grin softens at the edges, morphing into a smile that is less animated and more appreciative, more sincere and grateful. “I know,” he says, and realizes as the words leave him that they’re the _truth._ He _does_ know. As terrified and self-conscious as he is, he knows his worries are unfounded; he knows they stem from his _own_ insecurities, his _own_ unwillingness to seem incapable in front of his mentor, and not Mr. Stark’s perspective. 

Mr. Stark has never given him reason to believe that he _wouldn’t_ support him, no matter what—from helping him on science fair projects to cheering him on at Decathlon competitions, Mr. Stark _always_ shows up. 

If there’s one thing Peter can count on, it’s that.

“I promise I’ll ask for help if I ever need it,” he adds. “Besides, even if I don’t, I’m sure you’ve programmed KAREN to contact you herself in the case of an emergency.”

“I _might_ have,” Tony agrees shamelessly.

Peter just laughs. “I _knew_ it! And you called _me_ impossible.” 

Tony smirks at him, completely remorseless, and Peter _knows_ they’re okay. _He’s_ okay. 

Watching Tony tear himself down out of a misplaced sense of guilt drilled into him the realization that he can’t blame himself for Ski Mask Asshole’s actions. 

He has no doubt that there will be moments where he forgets, moment where he loses the fight against the belittling voice in his head, and moments where he gets swept up in another wave of contrition and self-flagellation, but he _also_ has no doubt that when those moments _do_ come, Mr. Stark will be there.

 _We’ll be okay,_ Peter thinks and _believes._ The corners of his lips turn upwards to form a tender smile. _Yeah. We really will._

“So,” he cuts cheerily into the silence after a few beats, somber mood all but forgotten as he finally reaches for the popcorn bowl again and tosses a few kernels into his mouth, “what are we watching next? I vote for _Tangled._ ”

Tony emits an exaggerated _groan._ “You just want to watch it for the songs,” he accuses.

“Guilty as charged,” Peter says unapologetically. 

Tony shoots Peter a warning glare. “Whatever you’re thinking, _stop._ It’s _not_ going to happen.”

Peter pouts. The one and only time they watched _Tangled_ together for Movie Night, Peter fell asleep halfway through and awoke to Tony carding his hand through his hair and softly humming along to _I’ve Got a Dream._

Peter has _never_ let him live it down. (He makes FRIDAY blare the tune of _I’ve Got a Dream_ at _least_ once a week when he’s over. Whenever Tony accuses him of trying to trip him up, Peter always claims it’s a coincidence, but they both know the truth: he’s just waiting and hoping to catch Tony off-guard again.)

“Oh, _come on_ ,” Peter pleads, “you _know_ you want to.” Without prompting, he lifts his glass of hot chocolate to his lips and pretends it’s a microphone, exaggeratedly and theatrically carolling his favorite lines of the upbeat song, “ _‘Cause way down deep inside… we’ve got a dream…_ ”

Tony immediately _bursts_ out laughing. “Oh, god, make it stop,” he gasps through a fit of chortles. His protests only make Peter grin wider and sing louder. “ _Stopppp,_ ” he gripes, but the cackle behind his voice betrays his amusement, “you're _killing_ me here. _Jesus_ , I regret everything.”

“Your dream is to sing that song, by the way,” Peter adds unhelpfully, “if that wasn’t clear—”

“Oh, no, it was very clear,” Tony interrupts, donning an unimpressed facade. He forcibly silences his chuckles under Peter’s knowing gaze. “Still not happening.”

Peter squints disbelievingly at him. “Oh, it’s happening. You won’t be able to help yourself. The song will come on and you’ll just break out singing like every single character in all those musicals you love—” 

“FRIDAY, you better cue up _Tangled_ before I’m forced to make an Iron Man sentry toss Peter off the balcony,” Tony cuts him off. 

_“Hey!_ ” 

“ _Yess, boss._ ”

“FRIDAY, you traitor. How _dare_ you both conspire against me like this, you—”

“ _My apologies, Mini Boss_ —”

“ _Wha—_? No, stop that! Don’t apologize, FRIDAY— _I’m_ the boss, remember?”

“You’re just mad your own AI likes _me_ better—”

“... _Shhh_ , kid, it’s starting—”

_ “This is the story of how I died, _ ” Flynn Rider begins to narrate, and Peter and Tony both immediately fall silent. “ _ Don’t worry—this is actually a very fun story! And the truth is, it isn’t even mine. This is the story of a girl named Rapunzel… _ ”

* * *

Two movies later— _Coco_ came after _Tangled_ , mostly because not even Iron Man can do anything against the power of Peter Parker’s puppy dog eyes—Peter and Tony seamlessly launch into their post-Movie Night ritual: Tony starts to shut down the TV and clean up the living room, while Peter grabs their dirty bowls and glasses and backflips off the sofa and into the kitchen. Washing the dishes with a practiced ease that comes from years of dish-washing with his aunt, Peter quickly deposits the newly-cleaned tableware in the FRIDAY-operated electric drying rack and returns to the living room.

“How am I always faster than you?” Peter teases as soon as he enters and spots Tony standing idly in front of a mess of blankets. “All you have to do is put the blankets away and get FRIDAY to turn off the TV.”

“Well, I _would_ be faster, if it weren’t for the fact that you always bring an _inordinate_ number of blankets—even though you only ever use just one!” Tony points out, nodding his head at the pile of blankets Peter dropped onto the ottoman at the beginning of their mini movie marathon. Peter splutters in protest ( _I’m being prepared! Who knows how cold I’ll get over the course of a few movies?_ ), but Tony ignores him and carries on, “Besides, you have an unfair advantage. You have your super spider-speed and all that.”

“...‘Super spider-speed’?” Peter echoes skeptically, scrunching up his nose. “That’s _not_ a thing.”

“Yeah, well, I say it’s a thing, and in this house, what I say goes,” Tony counters without missing a beat. “Now go put your super spider- _strength_ to good use and put away your hoard of blankets.”

“You’re just blaming the spider to distract from your bad back,” Peter pokes fun, “ _old man_.”

Tony gives an exaggerated gasp, dramatically clutching at his heart with one hand. “Wow, kiddo, that’s _harsh_ ,” he remarks, gawking woundedly.

Peter snorts and sticks his tongue out at his mentor, even as he dutifully bends down and effortlessly picks up the entire pile of blankets to Tony’s _whoop_ of delight.

Later, after everything has been returned to its rightful place, Peter slings his backpack over his shoulder and makes his way towards the elevator. “Bye, Mr. Stark! I’ll see you, Stella and FRI on Monday!” he hollers over his shoulder.

“I think FRIDAY’s going to be offended that you thought of my lab—as in, you know, _an inanimate object_ —before her, Pete,” Tony remarks, amused. 

“Sorry, FRI, you know I love you,” Peter laughs and waves sheepishly at a security camera mounted on the ceiling, despite knowing that FRIDAY runs throughout the entire building and isn’t restricted to any single receiver. 

As if in response, the elevator bay lights up as one of the lifts arrives on the penthouse floor with a _ding_. 

Peter arches a brow. Neither he nor Mr. Stark had called for the elevator yet. “Does that mean I’m forgiven?” he jokes. “Or is she banishing me from the tower?”

Tony chuckles. “I wouldn’t worry about it, kid. FRI adores you too much.”

As Peter hums in smug satisfaction and passes by, Tony yanks him into a secure hug and whispers a firm _you did good, Pete_ into his curls.

Peter blinks back tears and briefly tucks his head under Mr. Stark’s chin. His mentor always gives _phenomenal_ hugs, especially for someone who claims to recoil at the thought of emotional vulnerability.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” he whispers.

Tony smiles and gives Peter’s shoulders one last squeeze before letting him go. “Just remember I’m proud of you—of Spider-Man _and_ Peter Parker both,” he calls out. After all, it may have taken Spider-Man’s enhanced strength to save those hostages, but it was _Peter Parker’s_ compassion and selflessness and bravery that allowed him to be at that bank when they needed him.

Peter ducks into the elevator and smiles to himself, warmed.

(It turns out _Operation: Cheer Up the Underoos_ is a success after all. Never let it be said that Tony doesn’t know _exactly_ how to raise his Spider-Kid’s spirits.)

(The elevator doors slide shut, and Peter fails to hear what else Mr. Stark has to say:

“FRI, darling? Draft a message to Ned Leeds, would you? Ask him who this ‘Jameson’ asshole is. Oh, wait, you probably shouldn’t include the word ‘asshole’ in the text—impressionable minds and all that…”)

**03\. WHEREVER YOU GO**

_“Wherever you go, whatever you do, I’ll always be there supporting you.”_

**_SATURDAY_ **

The next morning, Peter wakes up to the insistent _buzz...buzz...buzz…_ of his phone. He groans, flinging his arm out and blindly searching for the vibrating device on his bedside table. When he finds it, fingers wrapping clumsily around the phone, he lifts it to his face—only to find that his phone is _blowing up_ with texts from Ned.

Peter blinks dumbly, eyes roaming blankly over Ned’s frantic texts, running into an assembly of capital letters and exclamation marks.

Confused, he types out a quick message and presses _send._

 **web-slinger:** what’s going on?

Almost immediately, Ned resurfaces, abruptly restarting his rapid-fire spam.

 **guy in the chair:** PETER

 **guy in the chair:** YOU’RE ALIVEEE

 **guy in the chair:** PETE PETE PETE

 **guy in the chair:** IT’S HAPPENING

 **guy in the chair:** THE DAY HAS FINALLY COME!!!

Peter’s nose scrunches up in confusion. “...Huh?”

 _It’s too early for this,_ he thinks miserably to himself, too exhausted to try to figure out what’s happening on his phone’s too-bright screen.

Luckily, it seems Ned knows him too well, because not even a second later, his phone rings with an incoming call from Caller ID: _Guy in the Chair._

Peter muffles a yawn and clicks _accept._ “Mornin’, Ned,” he groans, gratefully putting the phone on speaker and setting it down on the table now that he no longer has to stare into its glaring screen. He flops back down onto his bed and yanks his blanket up until they cover even his face. “Notice I _didn’t_ say ‘ _good_ morning,’” he adds snarkily.

Ned chortles with amusement, easily understanding his best friend's voice despite it being muffled by the duvet. “Right, of course, who could forget how irritable you get at this time of day?” he shoots back, completely unfazed after all of their sleepovers and overnight calls. Anyone who knows Peter at all _knows_ that he isn’t a morning person. “But I need you to forget your fervent hatred for early mornings for just a minute.”

“ _Impossible_.”

“...Please?”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut for a total of two seconds. Eventually, he throws the blanket off him and snatches his phone back up, squinting at Ned’s contact photo with annoyance. 

...His annoyance doesn’t last long. He can never stay mad while staring at a picture of his best friend pulling a goofy face for the cameras.

But he’s not about to let Ned realize the power his silly faces have over Peter. So instead of giving in and laughing, he announces gravely, “I hate you.”

“I know,” Ned says, entirely too smug. He knows exactly what kind of power he holds. They’ve been best friends for too long, Peter thinks. “Are you sitting down?”

“ _Lying_ down, thank you very much,” Peter corrects. “Why on earth would I be sitting right now?”

“Never mind,” Ned chuckles. “Just wanted to make sure you’re not in danger of toppling over at the slightest breeze.”

“You _do_ remember I’m Spider-Man, right?”

“Of course I do,” Ned says. “Actually, that’s kind of what I’m calling about.”

“...To remind yourself that I’m Spider-Man?” Peter asks in confusion. 

“What? No! Look, just – just check your phone, okay? Twitter, Instagram, _every_ social media platform you have.”

Reluctantly, Peter does—because if there’s one thing he’s learned after over a decade of being friends with Ned Leeds, it’s that Ned becomes a force of nature when he has his mind set on something. It’s better (read: _easier_ ) to just go along with his whims. 

(He can practically _hear_ Ned _vibrating_ with excitement as the other boy waits for him to check his social media accounts.)

Almost as soon as he opens up his Twitter app, Peter _splutters_ in shock—because after the initial lag passes, his feed welcomes onslaught after onslaught of Tweets. And in every single one of them, he spots a common thread—a common name. 

_His_ name.

(Well, _Spider-Man’s_ name. He and Ned would no doubt be having a _very_ different conversation right now if it were _Peter Parker’s_ name.)

“What – what is this?” Peter’s voice trembles.

“YOU’RE TRENDING!” Ned immediately crows in his ear, no longer able to hold himself back. His boundless enthusiasm rears its neon-colored head, evident in every lilt of his voice—high-pitched and tinny over the phone’s loudspeaker. “SPIDER-MAN IS _TRENDING_ , PETER!”

Peter stares dumbly down at his phone, because—for once—his Guy in the Chair _isn’t_ exaggerating.

Right there, on his phone screen, is the evidence of it: hundreds—no, _thousands_ —of Tweets made in support of Spider-Man, waxing lyrical about his heart of gold and his good deeds and his heroics. _Thousands_.

Peter sniffles. He thinks back to the previous evening, to the comfortable quiet in the lab and Mr. Stark’s arm wrapped around his shoulders. He thinks of the look in Mr. Stark’s eyes when he murmured, _“You’re a hero, kiddo. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you otherwise.”_

He thought that had been the end of it. Now, he knows better. Because now, staring down as thousands upon thousands of people step forward in support of Spider-Man, he knows—he categorically _knows_ —that this is Mr. Stark’s doing.

It _has_ to be.

“...I’m going to have to call you back,” he says out loud, his voice strangled.

There’s a long pause, as if Ned is wondering how to proceed, before he ultimately concedes, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be waiting. Don’t freak out _too_ much. Or, you know, if you _do_ feel like freaking out—you know where to find me.”

Peter laughs weakly. _Too late, Ned,_ he thinks, but is inwardly grateful for Ned’s unspoken support. He knows Ned will always have his back. He has no doubt that if he _were_ to show up at Ned’s house on a Saturday morning with no notice and no warning, Ned would welcome him in with only a grin and an easy _come on, we have snacks inside_.

“Thanks, Ned,” he says, and it feels meaningless. There are no words that could possibly encompass his limitless gratitude for _everything_ Ned has ever done for him. 

But, he supposes, a thank-you is a _start_.

“No need for any thanks,” Ned waves it off. “I’m your _guy in the chair_ , after all.”

Peter blinks back tears, abruptly struck by the memory of Ned hacking into his Spider-Man suit and bravely risking the wrath of _Tony Effing Stark_ at his request, of Ned showing up with french fries and a tub of rocky road ice cream after Mr. Stark took his suit back, of Ned willingly landing himself in trouble with a terrible lie ( _I’m watching porn_ ) to cover for Peter. His life is littered with a million different times Ned has had his back.

This is no different.

“Yeah, you are,” Peter murmurs, and thinks of Aunt May staying up late to make sure he gets home safely on patrol nights, of her warm hugs and comforting forehead kisses. He thinks of Mr. Stark’s kind eyes and unwavering _I’m proud of you_. He thinks of Happy and his silent support, of how he instantly realized something was wrong and asked Mr. Stark to check in on him. 

He has no idea how he ever got so lucky, to have all these people who’d go to Hell and back for him. 

Ned laughs again, bright and giddy, blissfully ignorant of just _how_ much his unquestioning loyalty means to Peter, and ends the call.

Peter heaves a sigh, returning his attention to his Twitter feed and the slew of support for Spider-Man. It takes over half an hour ( _thank god for lazy weekends in_ ) of scrolling, clicking through threads and downright investigative work, but Peter eventually manages to trace the catalyst back to one specific Tweet:

It’s an official Tweet from Tony Stark’s verified account, slamming the Daily Bugle for criticizing Spider-Man.

> **Tony Stark @i-am-ironman ✓**
> 
> (1/?) I recently read an article by J. Jonah Jameson that accused Spider-Man of doing anything _less_ than his absolute best to try to save the hostages during Thursday night’s Capital One Bank incident. Jameson could not be more wrong.
> 
> **> Tony Stark @i-am-ironman ✓**
> 
> (2/?) The truth is, Spider-Man happened upon the scene of an ongoing bomb threat, and instead of running, he didn’t _hesitate_ to leap into the crossfire. He _willingly_ endangered himself for the sake of others. This is what Spider-Man does, _every damn day_ , and it’s what makes him _my_ hero.
> 
> **> > Tony Stark @i-am-ironman ✓**
> 
> (3/?) It’s also why Spider-Man inspires me to be better—a better hero and a better man. In both my _personal_ and my _professional_ opinion, we should all strive to be more like him. So I better not hear anymore of this bullshit about Spider-Man being anything other than the BEST hero we have ever known. 
> 
> **> >> Tony Stark @i-am-ironman ✓**
> 
> (4/?) I’ve been certain of this since the very first time I met him, when he told me that he does what he does simply because he has the power to, and thus he has the responsibility to. It was in that moment that I thought, ‘Wow, this world is a better place because he’s in it.’ 
> 
> **> >>> Tony Stark @i-am-ironman ✓**
> 
> (5/5) I stand by that opinion today. The world truly _is_ better off with him in it. There’s simply no one I’d trust more to keep the city safe than Spider-Man #ThankYouSpider-Man #OurHero #SupportSpidey

Peter stares in shock. He suspected Mr. Stark had a hand in this, but to actually _see_ the evidence of it—to see _Mr. Stark_ speak up in _his_ defense and practically proclaim Spider-Man to be his favorite hero (for _all the world to see,_ no less)…

Peter can hardly believe his eyes.

Resisting the urge to immediately call Mr. Stark and weep into the phone, he reluctantly clicks out of the thread (though not before taking a dozen different screenshots— _just to be safe_ —and inwardly squealing to himself in excited glee) and resumes his browsing.

After Mr. Stark’s initial Tweet, the ensuing wave of support was overwhelming—there are long anecdotes detailing Spider-Man’s good deeds, video messages from people crying and thanking him for saving them, pictures of families ( _safe_ and _whole_ families) beaming up at him and thanking Spider-Man, a little girl holding up a drawing of Spider-Man saving her brother, a classroom of kindergarteners all enthusiastically reciting _thank you Mr. Spider-Man_ , and so much more.

Every single Tweet is tagged _#ThankYouSpider-Man_ , _#OurHero_ and _#SupportSpidey_ in accordance with Mr. Stark’s.

But best of all: there’s a post from Aaron’s family, accompanied by a heartfelt message of thanks.

In it, Aaron is beaming brightly at the camera as he clutches a large card that exclaims, _Thank you for saving me, Spider-Man! You’re my hero!_

 _My son would be dead if you hadn’t been there last night, Spider-Man,_ the caption reads. _Thanks to you, he’s safe and sound. We owe you one._

Peter’s eyes abruptly pool with tears, and he finally gives in to the urge to text Tony.

 **underoos:** you really didn’t have to do that, Mr. Stark!!!

 **underoos:**...thank you

* * *

When he’s finally composed himself enough to stumble out of his room, he finds Aunt May grinning knowingly at him and his red-rimmed eyes. Her own eyes are twinkling with mischief, but she tellingly stays silent as she hands over a bowl of cereal.

Peter thinks of last night, of Tony’s tangible concern and his _pride,_ of the phone in his pocket that’s still on Tony’s last text to him ( _anything for my Spider-Kid_ ), and smiles back at his aunt.

He’s just trying his best. And for once, he believes it’s enough. 

It’s more than enough.

(And if ever he doubts that, he knows he’ll always have his _family_ to lift him back up. Not just his aunt, but also his friends, his mentor, and _all_ the people he’s saved.

He will always have their support.)

**BONUS #1:**

The following Monday, Ned slips him a tiny wrapped box. 

Peter arches an eyebrow, to which Ned only grins and whispers, _open it._

He does, and—

It’s a pin emblazoned with the words _#SupportSpidey_. 

“Happy dropped them off at my house this morning,” Ned reveals. Now that it’s no longer a secret from Peter, he promptly pulls out an identical pin from inside his pocket and hooks it to the front of his sweatshirt. “Apparently Mr. Stark custom-ordered the pins himself. Honestly, Happy looked a little like he couldn’t believe that Mr. Stark even _knew_ how to shop online without Ms. Potts’ or FRIDAY’s help.”

Peter can’t help himself: he throws his head back and _laughs_ (and cries happy tears inside). 

(He _swears_ he sees Aunt May, MJ, and Mr. Stark all wearing the pin that day. Mr. Stark has even managed to convince Happy to boast one on the left lapel of his suit jacket.)

(Somehow, some way, Flash gets his hands on his own _#SupportSpidey_ pin.

Peter catches him slipping a few bucks into MJ’s locker later that day and wisely decides not to question it.)

**BONUS #2:**

The next time he goes on patrol, he spots Officer Rodriguez with a familiar grin and an equally-familiar box of donuts. 

This time, Peter laughs and gladly accepts a donut when it’s offered to him in return for his hard work.

(When Mr. Stark finds him with a splotch of powdered sugar on his suit, all he does is shake his head with a smile, exasperated and immeasurably fond.)

**BONUS #3:**

A few weeks after the bomb threat—now referred to only as _The Incident_ by Peter and Ned and (begrudgingly) Mr. Stark—Tony interrupts one of their lab sessions with an offhanded _hey Pete, I had FRIDAY look Aaron and his family up, and she tracked down an address for you. They live in Brooklyn—_

Peter’s crossed the room and is standing right in front of Tony before he can even finish his sentence. “Mr. Stark, that’s kinda creepy,” he remarks, and then hesitates for a moment. Eventually, he asks tentatively, “Is he—?”

“He’s okay,” Tony confirms. “So… do you want that address or are you afraid of looking like a stalker?”

* * *

The next day, Peter swings by an ice cream parlor on his way to Brooklyn. It takes longer than he expected (he didn’t realize the folly of walking in with his Spider-Man suit on until the owner rushed out from the backroom and begged for a picture together, abruptly prompting everyone else in the shop to follow suit), but he eventually escapes unscathed. 

He’s two minutes away from his intended destination when he hesitates and makes a last-minute stop at a nearby coffee shop to pick up a few cups of hot chocolate. 

Finally, a couple pints of Stark Raving Hazelnut ice cream tucked under one arm and a tray of hot chocolate carried carefully in the other, he walks up the driveway of a suburban home and knocks on the door.

The door swings open, and Peter comes face-to-face with familiar brown eyes.

“S-Spider-Man?” Aaron’s father stammers. 

“Hi,” Peter greets awkwardly. “Uh, you’re Aaron’s father, right? I met you at the bank.”

“That’s me,” the man answers politely. “I’m David. I have to say, it’s nice to properly meet the man who saved my life.” 

Unable to offer to shake David’s hand with both his hands occupied, Peter simply nods and replies, hoping that David can hear the smile in his voice, “It’s nice to meet you, too.” 

With a knowing smile, David pops his head back into the house and hollers, “Aaron! It’s for you!”

Seconds later, Aaron comes barrelling out the door. “Mr. Spider-Man!” he exclaims. “Dad, look, it’s Mr. Spider-Man!”

David smiles in fond amusement. “I can see that,” he replies. 

Peter can’t help but laugh. “Sorry for barging in,” he interjects. “I swear I’m not a stalker. I, uh, I bought offerings? Consider it a sort of get-well-soon gift.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” David says in surprise. “This really isn’t necessary. I mean, it’s thanks to you that we don’t actually _need_ to ‘get well soon’. You saved us all.”

“I wanted to,” Peter assures and lifts the tray of drinks towards them. “Hot chocolate?”

“Cool!” Aaron blurts out, rushing forward and eagerly accepting one of the paper cups. “This is so awesome! My friends will be _so_ jealous!”

“He’s always been a huge fan of you, you know—even before what happened at the bank,” David divulges with a wink, giving in quickly at the sight of his son’s joy. He pauses and adds, as if as an afterthought, “And he’s a big fan of chocolate, too. He has a _massive_ sweet tooth, so he loves pretty much anything that’s chocolate-flavored.”

Peter smiles lightly to himself. “Yeah,” he nods, thinking of hot chocolate and Iron Man blankets and Brandi Carlile’s singing, “me, too.”

( _You saved them, Pete,_ Mr. Stark consoled last night, without so much as a shadow of doubt in his voice, and looking at them now—at Aaron’s effervescent beam and David’s quietly inextinguishable contentment—Peter believes him.)

( _I’m proud of you._

He believes that, too.)


End file.
